


The Deepest Secret Nobody Knows

by sciosophia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kid Fic, No happy endings, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciosophia/pseuds/sciosophia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>First words. First steps. Tiny things like first smile, first laugh, the first time he reaches out and grabs Sally's finger (and his hands are so small). Sherlock misses everything.</i>
</p><p>The real reason Sally Donovan hates Sherlock so much? They have a child he never sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally [posted to Livejournal](http://lovingthevolume.livejournal.com/15691.html) a year and a half ago, in January 2011. It's an exploration of how parenthood can push you apart rather than together, and what the two sides of that story might be. There are no happy endings here.

_Well, you know what I think, don't you?  
  
Always, Sally._  
  
He introduces her as an old friend. The tone bites and she ignores him, turns to the man standing next to them, the one that had made Sherlock say _he's with me_. Sally wonders if he has any idea how ironic Sherlock's words for her really are.  
  
  
  
  
  
Their acquaintance is still short enough, then, that when he follows her home it feels alright for there to be a little bit of talking and a lot of touching; alright for his hands, which this morning had touched a dead body and now are touching hers, to feel what her skin is like underneath her clothes.  
  
She remembers out-of-focus impressions of paleness, the kind of skin that burns in English sunshine, and freckles, dulled by winter, on his spine, and somewhere in the hours between opening her front door and hearing it close in the morning, the biggest mistake of Sally's life is cemented into reality in the strongest possible way.  
  
  
  
  
  
They don't discuss it—any of it, ever—but she knows that he knows. She's seen him pull facts from the tiniest details, inconsequential points painted into murder maps, so she'd have to be an idiot to think that she has any chance of hiding it from him, even if she wants to.  
  
There's a moment, about three or four weeks in, when he's looking at her from the other side of a corpse—just the tiniest glance in her direction, eyes sliding over her the way his hands had done, vaguely, in her memory—and she realises that he _knows_.  
  
Lestrade's talking but Sherlock's not listening; Sally has her arms crossed, trying to concentrate on her work and not the constant cyclical panic that's overtaken her head— _you're going to be a mother_ over and over and _over_ —and he narrows his eyes and that's it, _that's_ the look—the moment when they both know that something they can barely remember is going to be with them for the rest of their lives.  
  
It's the closest they ever get to talking about it.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally has a son. She's been vague about who his father is, told the truth only to her mother, but when her colleagues come to visit them in the hospital—when they see him—she thinks that, now, probably, they know.  
  
  
  
  
  
Then she's visited by a stranger.  
  
At this point she hasn't seen Sherlock for some time, but there's something about this man, in the way that he watches her, in the casual manner that he leans on his umbrella and stares down into her son's cot, that recalls him, and it makes Sally's defences rise sharp and strong; she grips the blanket in her hands and frowns, questions, _what who why?_  
  
 _Just an interested party_ , and all the while he's watching her son sleep.  
  
“There's something of Sherlock in the eyes, don't you think?”  
  
Yes, Sally does think. The same colour, the same shape. She's praying for them to darken as they settle, for it to be soon. For all that she's never loved anything quite so much as this small and frightening person, the reminder is disconcerting.  
  
“I'll call someone,” she warns instead, and she's reminded of true authority when he just smiles, an insincere turn of the mouth that widens, turns a little truthful, when he looks back at the hospital cot.  
  
“You'll be provided for, of course,” he continues, and it's like a disconnect between the conversation she thinks they're having and the one he's decided on.  
  
“What?”  
  
“School, clothes, general costs. Whatever you need.” He twists the umbrella handle around in his hand as if he's thinking about what to say next. “There are some of us—” and here a darkening of expression, a glance at the cot, “—who don't leave things...unattended.”  
  
And it's true, Sherlock has stayed as far away from this—from _them_ , now—as it's possible to be when they occasionally have to work together. Logically speaking Sally prefers it that way, because he's dangerous and callous and odd and not the type of person she ever wants to expose her child to, but at the same time—at the same time she has a son who has no father, and that's not what she wants at all.  
  
“One condition,” the man says. “Regular contact. I want to keep an eye on him.”  
  
“You can't just walk in here,” Sally begins, because she's still exhausted and now she's irritated and a little afraid, “and start trying to offer me money and demanding to see my child, and I don't even know who you _are_ —”  
  
“As I said,” he interrupts, and still there's that shadow of affection that Sally doesn't quite understand, yet. “I'm an interested party.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally's fingers hesitate over the keys on her phone, over the blank space ready for a text. She doesn't know what to say.  
  
She settles on _Sam. 7lbs. 2:25am._  
  
There's no reply.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Samuel Donovan_ is her father's name. Or was, rather. He died a long time ago, so now it's her son's instead.  
  
  
  
  
  
It turns out that the strange man's name is Mycroft, that he's Sherlock's brother and he means it when he says they'll be looked out for.  
  
Sally does her best to keep it under control; she puts her foot down at money, almost explodes when the first anonymous donation shows up on her bank statement—she can provide perfectly well for her own child, thank you very much—but there are a few things that she allows. Tiny gift-wrapped clothes, a pair of shoes that are so small she can hold them in one hand. A text from an unknown number that says Mr Holmes will be visiting his nephew this coming Thursday.  
  
The payments stop, Sally makes sure of that, but the visits—she lets them go.  
  
  
  
  
  
First words. First steps. Tiny things like first smile, first laugh, the first time he reaches out and grabs Sally's finger (and his hands are so _small_ ).  
  
Sherlock misses everything.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally's undeniably surprised to see Lestrade at the front door.  
  
She's got Sam in the crook of her arm, sleeping against her chest, and Lestrade's eyes flick between her and the baby as he asks if it's alright to come in. Her mum's out so Sally makes tea one-handed, waving off all offers of help—she's beginning to get the balance between baby and everything else perfected and she relishes the practice—and they sit at the kitchen table and exchange wisps of conversation about Sam and the Yard, all the while skirting whatever issue it is that he's come to discuss with her.  
  
Finally, when he lifts the mug for the last dregs of his tea, Sally says, “So.”  
  
“So,” Lestrade echoes, setting the empty mug on the table. “Have you thought about coming back to work yet? About Sam?”  
  
Sally nods. “We're going to stay here with my mum for a bit.” Grandmothers are cheaper than nurseries, although Sally has insisted on paying rent, much to her mother's annoyance. “So there's no problem with me coming back.”  
  
Lestrade doesn't immediately reply; Sally is sure she knows why.  
  
“Listen,” she says, pre-empts whatever he thinks he's about to say. “I know that you and everyone else know who Sam's dad is, it's obvious just to look at him,” and she does then, though his eyes are closed, “but it's not going to be a problem. I'm not going to let that happen.”  
  
Lestrade doesn't say anything for a while, just watches her hand on the back of Sam's head, the way her thumb brushes the soft skull. He was born with hair already thick and curling, although not as tightly as hers. Gentler, more like—  
  
“Sergeant,” he says, “I value you as an officer and I want you on my team. To _stay_ on my team. But Sherlock—”  
  
“With respect, sir,” she interrupts. “I get it.”  
  
And she does; he's indispensable now, as far as Lestrade is concerned. Sally will always think otherwise—her and Sam _are_ going to be fine on their own—but Lestrade's her boss; the decision is out of her hands, in the same way that Sherlock has taken the decision on whether Sam will have one parent or two away from her.  
  
“Right, well,” Lestrade replies. “Good. That's good.”  
  
There's an unspoken _thank you_ in there, but Sally's a professional, she doesn't need it. Not for agreeing to get on with her job.  
  
  
  
  
  
Going back to work is a little strange—a mixture of happy and sad, guilt and relief. Leaving Sam is hard, hard enough that in the morning she says goodbye with wet eyes and a knot in her throat, but stepping off the tube and knowing that she's _back_ , that work is just around the corner—that helps. That definitely helps.  
  
Most of her colleagues are fine—it's old news, though some still take the opportunity to gossip that Sally got herself knocked up by the freak (and fuck them, she thinks, seriously)—and her desk is still in the same place, tucked next to Lestrade's office, just where she left it. Some of the girls downstairs have bought gifts for Sam to welcome her back and it makes the nerves she's been ignoring all morning (why is she worrying?) disappear a little.  
  
“Donovan?” Lestrade says at quarter to nine, poking his head around his office door. “Need you in here.”  
  
Sally smiles. She's back.  
  
  
  
  
  
The first time she sees Sherlock again after Sam is born— _their son_ , she thinks, and doesn't that sound out of place?—it is, inevitably, at a crime scene.  
  
It's a little boy, a splayed body that makes Sally want to vomit and then go home and check that her own is still breathing, but she just holds it in and directs forensics up to the scene. She can see Sherlock melting out of the dark ahead of her as she points the pathologist towards the house. Her heartbeat speeds up and she crosses her arms.  
  
“Hello, freak.”  
  
He scowls at her, but his eyes are too bright, skin too flushed. Sally recognises that look.  
  
“He won't let you in if you're high,” she says. “You're supposed to be clean.”  
  
“Aren't you supposed to be at home?” he sidesteps. His eyes narrow and she can see where he's loosened the collar of his shirt. Sweat shines in the dips of his collarbones.  
  
“No,” she replies. She pulls the police tape up and he steps underneath, the way he's done so many times before, and when he straightens they stare at each other for a moment. Looking at him is like looking at Sam. “What day do you think it is? What month, for that matter?”  
  
“He's been ill, then.”  
  
Sally is used to Sherlock doing things like this, throwing out statements that are entirely non-sequitur, but this—this is different. This is about the son he has yet to see. It hurts, in that deep-rooted way that everything to do with Sam does, and she's shocked into saying, “Uh, yes. What—”  
  
“You smell of [Calpol](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calpol). You've got bags under your eyes too. Obvious,” he says, beginning towards the house. He turns to face her, walking backwards for a few strides. “You've been staying up with him.”  
  
Sally splutters. She's furious (though really that's nothing new, she's been furious with him since a little blue plus-sign appeared on a pregnancy test), and it's building and building. He's an addict, yes, and he's strange and dangerous and her rational side tells her constantly that they're better off without him, and they _are_ —but it's hard, when she's sitting up with a poorly baby, or when Sam smiles, when his mumbles sound like they're becoming words, to know that Sherlock is _missing all of this_. She will never, ever understand how he can bear to be away from Sam, even for a few seconds, let alone forever.  
  
Let alone out of _choice_.  
  
She realises, watching him turn back towards the crime scene and walk away (always away, always away from _them_ ), that it's the first conversation they've ever had about their son.  
  
  
  
  
  
Christmas. Birthday. Christmas. Birthday. Lots of them, one after another, and each one marked by an absent father (though not defined, _never_ defined—Sally refuses).  
  
But it's alright. Sam doesn't know the difference.  
  
  
  
  
  
She and Mycroft discuss it, _properly_ , just once. Sam's questions have begun to render themselves comprehensible, his understanding of the world clarifying every day, and with it Sally can feel a countdown starting in her head; how long until his questions take on a certain shape, a certain cadence? A certain subject.  
  
When Mycroft visits—few, far between, usually on special occasions, but enough that he seems to be sticking to his promise to take care of them (enough for Sam to grin and babble happily at the sight of him)—there's a kind of unspoken agreement between them that the subject never strays from Sam.  
  
There's nothing Mycroft can tell her—Sally decided long ago that he obviously runs the government, so work is out, and personal life is a complete _no_ —and she doubts he has any interest in her profession beyond how it might occupy Sherlock. She's secretly grateful that he doesn't attempt small talk.  
  
Tonight Mycroft's assistant is absent—time off, apparently—and Sally's mum is out with friends so it's just Sally and Mycroft and Sam, whose stories had been so exuberantly garbled this evening that he's fallen asleep on the sofa; stretched out, limbs contorted in all sorts of directions, he doesn't even cover half of it, and Sally sits down next to him, settles a hand into his hair.  
  
“The similarities are remarkable.”  
  
Mycroft is watching from the armchair. Sally doesn't ask if he means physical or behavioural; she doesn't want to know. Instead she hums an acknowledgement and hopes that it's enough. It seems to be, for the moment, as silence blooms; they're both watching Sam, whose only movement is the rise and fall of his chest, occasionally a twitch.  
  
“Sherlock had the same energy,” Mycroft says, when the quiet has become fuzzy. Sally jumps a little, disturbed from her inspection of Sam's hands. “He must be rather a handful.”  
  
She can never know if there's something underneath Mycroft's words, a hidden meaning waiting to bite, so she just settles for something non-committal. “I'm never bored.”  
  
“Good,” Mycroft replies. He focuses on her for a moment, that incisive look he shares with his brother. “That's good.”  
  
“Listen,” Sally says. It's an impulse, but the subject of Sherlock is pervading the air, thicker than usual, and the entire time she's been looking at her son's hands she'd seen his father's, the promise of long fingers and strong, thin wrists. “Now that's he's getting older—he—I think—”  
  
“You're expecting questions.”  
  
Well, yes. Sally nods. “I've been thinking about this and—if he ever asks you—about his dad, I mean—don't tell him anything.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Sally raises one back— _let me finish_. “Just—tell him to ask me. Please. I want him to talk to _me_ about Sherlock.”  
  
She's unconsciously tightened her fingers in Sam's hair; he shifts, pushing her hands away in his sleep, and Sally resettles them on her lap, murmurs _sorry sweetheart_ even though he can't hear her.  
  
There's a very long pause as Mycroft seems to consider what's she said; all the while his face is inscrutable, and he's used enough to getting his own way that the hierarchy of _mother_ before _uncle_ wouldn't stop him from ignoring her request. Sally's about to open her mouth, possibly to argue further, though there are questions about Sherlock that have started to buzz inside her head and in the quiet of her living room, tonight, she feels like Mycroft might be able to give her answers. _Do you know why?_  
  
“If you think that would be better,” he answers eventually, stilling Sally's words before they've had a chance to leave her mouth. It's probably for the best.  
  
“Yes,” she says. She glances once more at Sam, then back to Mycroft. He's watching Sam too and for the smallest second Sally sees a soft expression, something warm. “Yes, I think it would be.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Anderson is with forensics. They've known each other for years, long before Sally became a mother, and when Sam was a baby, when she was up trying to stop him crying, when the colic got too much or anything her mum suggested just didn't work, she would ask; Anderson and his wife have kids of their own and plenty of good advice to go along with it.  
  
She's envious of his wife, in a way—they don't know each other very well but they've done small talk, at Christmas parties and things, and she's heard all about how good he is with their kids, about the things he does, and the unspoken idea of fifty-fifty, of someone to share the load with.  
  
That's what Sally's jealous of.  
  
She has her mum, yeah, and there are no words for how grateful she is, but—it's not the same. Not quite. No one with the same level of inexperience to lean on and ask _are we doing the right thing?_ No one to look at and say _do you have any idea what you're doing? No, me neither_. No one with whom she's on equal footing, because her mum has done this all before, and even if she never says anything Sally wonders, in the back of her head, if she's silently critiquing the way Sally holds him or clothes him or puts him to bed. _Not like that, dear._  
  
When Anderson tells her that his marriage is in trouble Sally is horrified to find that, in amongst the condolences, the _are you okay_ s and the comforting gestures, there's a spike of victory, and it feels like _I'm not the only one alone any more._  
  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft says something cryptic. Not that this is unusual—Sally is used to conversations that consist almost entirely of subtext—but this doesn't seem to be about her house or the weather or even Sam.  
  
“There are things that need fixing,” he informs her on the doorstep with neither preamble nor explanation, turning back just as he leaves. “Things that I intend to fix.”  
  
Even a year ago Sally would have asked him. She still wants to—wants to ask what it is, why he thinks he can fix it, why he has the right to if he does—because Sally hates not knowing, can't bear indirectness, but with Mycroft things like that will only get her an impersonal smile and a nod for a goodbye, a sense of frustration. He leaves and Sally tries not to let it bother her, even though it feels like a little knot of foreboding in the back of her head.  
  
  
  
  
  
She's called into work two hours early, a murder with a locked door and no cause of death. It's one of those mornings where she takes a few deep breaths, kisses a still-sleeping Sam goodbye and mentally prepares herself for seeing Sherlock, but when she arrives he's not there.  
  
Lestrade doesn't mention him and neither does anyone else, and as they stand next to the bodies, cataloguing the seemingly impossible scene, Sally's curiosity bubbles over.  
  
"You going to text him then?" she asks. "This seems like just his sort of thing."  
  
Lestrade keeps looking at the victim, lips pursed in thought. “Sherlock's out of bounds for a bit,” he replies. “Don't ask me why, haven't a clue.”  
  
Sally's adrenaline does a nose-dive and then spikes again, a whirl of confusion as her body realises that she doesn't have to see him, that there's an unknown reason why. She nods, _okay_ , forces her attention away to the issues at hand, but whatever way they look at it the situation seems impossible, and Sally can't stop _thinking_.  
  
Later, at her desk, Sally picks up her phone and scrolls through the contacts, straight to _F._ She refuses to save his number under _Sherlock_. Her fingers linger over the keys, motivated by questions and the echo of Mycroft's words in her head. _Is it you he wants to fix, Sherlock? Is it you he wants to save?_  
  
She clicks aimlessly between contacts, legs tucked underneath her, and she pushes her heel against the desk, starts to swivel her chair from side to side. Sally doesn't know much about Sherlock and his brother—they exist entirely separately in her head, really, linked only by Sam—but sometimes she feels like Mycroft knows as little about him as she does, which boils down to words like _genius_ and _cruel_ and _not safe_.  
  
It's the last one that sticks in her head.  
  
  
  
  
  
Weeks without Sherlock when they actually _need_ him proves stupidly unproductive; they still have no murder weapon, no solution to the mystery of a locked door. They have enough that Sally feels vindicated, feels that she could hold her head up and say _see?_ but—that's not enough. Not for the confused families, the stunned relatives that Sherlock would never even think of. The ones that make Sally wish he _was_ here, if only to give them the answers that no one else can seem to find.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Good evening.”  
  
Sally jumps. She bloody _jumps_ , right out her skin, hand over fast-fluttering heart and drawn-in breath. Sherlock grins at her discomfort; it's deeply unsettling.  
  
“ _Freak_ ,” she says, like it's actually his name. “Don't bloody do that.”  
  
He's still grinning. In the harsh light of their offices the angles of his face are bleached out, eyes lighter, but his bones are sharp enough that he still reminds her of a shark.  
  
“Lestrade,” he says, a demand and not a question. The grin drops like it's been wiped away and for a moment Sally finds all she can do is _look_. At the imperfections in his skin, the way it's grey and marked underneath his eyes. He looks thinner, she thinks—the edge of his jaw is severe, tendons in his neck more visible from emaciation, but it's not— _it's not unhealthy_ , Sally thinks, entirely nonsensically. It's a different kind of thin to the one that she's used to. Like it's something to be recovered from as opposed to maintained.  
  
“In there,” she replies. There's enough of a delay between question and answer for him to raise an eyebrow, just a little, but Sally scowls in defence and goes back to her work. There's a pause where Sherlock is still standing beside her desk, a darkness in the corner of her eye, but when she looks the door to Lestrade's office is closing behind him. Sally's heart is calming down from shock, beating too fast, but it's impeded by the deductions swirling inside her head.  
  
“Mycroft Holmes,” she murmurs. “You interfering bastard.”  
  
She has no idea whether to be thankful or hateful. Something to fix, someone to save. She'd never have had him down as the type. Sally thinks of the addicts she's seen going through withdrawal in the cells, of the definition of hell they'd presented—thinks of Sherlock going through that. She plays with the corner of the picture on her desk, the drawing Sam had given her with that morning and insisted she take to work. It's half-hidden underneath her laptop and she draws it out, looks at her son's interpretation of the world.  
  
 _Things that need fixing_ , Mycroft had said. She wonders if he thinks it will change anything; if she really does know Sherlock better than him, after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
It's not an affair. Well, it is but it isn't; Anderson's wife doesn't know about it, but then they're not exactly _good_ right now either, and Sally is half-guilt and half-triumph, fuelled by the feeling that—for once—she's not the one who's on their own.  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Wrong!_ pops up on the screen on Sally's BlackBerry. So he can take the time to text her about an impossible suicide but not about their son?  
  
Of course he can.  
  
“You've got to stop him doing that,” she says. Lestrade has a hand to the back of his head, worrying at his hair. “He's making us look like idiots.”  
  
“If you can tell me how he does it,” Lestrade answers over his shoulder, “I'll stop him.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“Well, you know what I think, don't you?”  
  
“Always, Sally.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally is quite sure that she's going to kill Sherlock Holmes, father of her child or not. She's already in a terrible mood with him, considering what day it is and all the things he _hasn't_ done, but he's also annoying and arrogant and intrusive; it's none of his business who she decides to sleep with, not any more. Never was, really. The reason that she's wearing Anderson's deodorant is between her and him (and possibly between him and his wife, though Sally doesn't dwell on that); privacy is obviously a social boundary that Sherlock's never even _heard_ of, and _God_ , she could kill him, she really could.  
  
Not that any of this is unusual.  
  
Sally has spent enough time wishing Sherlock an early death that she can push it to the back of her mind and carry on with her life, so she's discussing the scene with a PC when she sees Sherlock leave the house. He's walking quickly—he's obviously having a productive evening—and he ducks under the police tape and away without a word, too preoccupied to throw insults.  
  
John Watson isn't far behind. Sally feels a touch of pity as he limps onto the road, looking first left and then right and then towards her. He limps over.  
  
“He's gone,” she tells him.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”  
  
Yes, he bloody well does. John Watson doesn't know where he is and as Sally directs him to the main road she wants to ask _why_ ; why do people think that hanging around with Sherlock is ever a good idea? As he folds under the police tape, conversation seemingly over, Sally can't help it and the words bubble out.  
  
“Look,” she begins, “you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends.” _Or family, not really_ , she thinks. “So who are you?”  
  
He stumbles over it, settles finally on _I'm nobody, I just met him_. What an idiot. People flock to Sherlock like sheep. Sally's betting that it's the bone structure, the hair, the coat; he's practically the embodiment of a Byronic hero, dark and brooding, the kind of looks that you could compare to a Keats poem and get away with it. He's practically magnetic.  
  
“Okay, bit of advice then,” she tells him. “Stay away from that guy.”  
  
“Why?” He fires the word back with barely a hesitation, defensive, and Sally is starting to wonder if they really have just met. Either that or this man is very loyal _very_ quickly.  
  
Sally has a hundred reasons for staying away from Sherlock Holmes, though half of them aren't something she's going to share with a man she's just met. Besides, he can't get pregnant, meaning he's got half of her problems when it comes to Sherlock and even less reasons to know about them. She settles on what's most obvious to the outside world.  
  
“You know why he's here?” she begins. John looks towards the house and then back at her, guarded, slightly curious. “He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it.” And there's the truth, out there for the world and John Watson to see. “The weirder the crime the more he gets off and you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.” The words tumble out, all the things that Sally thinks when she looks at Sam and wonders _how alike are they, really?_ The thoughts that terrify her.  
  
“Why would he do that?”  
  
John Watson is looking at her a little like she's an idiot.  
  
“Because he's a psychopath.” No point in dressing up the truth. Part of her wants to shock him—wants to shock John Watson, the man who's captivated Sherlock so entirely on a day when he should be paying attention to someone else. “Psychopaths get bored.”  
  
Lestrade calls her then from inside the house. She spares one last look for the man over her shoulder; one last piece of advice.  
  
“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
  
  
  
  
She doesn't know what to think of him. Mad, obviously, for sticking to Sherlock like glue, but he seems fairly normal. Sally sees him twice, that first time, once at the murder-not-suicide and then later, in the flat she'd like to avoid. She always notices the walls, the mantelpiece—covered in pictures, paintings, but no photographs—and she _feels_ the bare space in the middle where, at home, there is a photo of Sam.  
  
Tonight it's rather awful, mostly because Lestrade has called her back out for overtime when she's already annoyed about having to work today at all, and to this place no less. She thinks he must have forgotten what day it is, distracted as he is by Sherlock's insane behaviour and the bewildering addition of an army doctor, so she just holds her head high and hopes that it's over and done with as soon as possible.  
  
The flat— _their flat? Already?_ she thinks, noting the unfamiliar things—is as ridiculous as always; there are bits being pulled from cupboards and fridges that are probably infectious and _definitely_ illegal, and she catches Anderson's eye from across the kitchen and mimes being sick. He grins. When Sherlock turns up John Watson is still in tow, and he still seems completely ignorant of Sherlock from the way that he dismisses Sherlock's past without a single hesitation.  
  
“Are these human eyes?” Sally asks, waving the contents of the microwave at Sherlock. He scowls, expression twisted, gestures harsh.  
  
“Put those back.”  
  
“They were in the microwave!”  
  
“It's an experiment,” he snarls, all sarcasm, and yes, well, everything's a fucking _experiment_ with him, isn't it? Lestrade interjects, _keep looking guys_ , and Sally puts the frankly disgusting, very child-unfriendly jar on the counter. She doesn't even want to think about the rest of the kitchen.  
  
She hears the murmur of words between he and John through the open kitchen partition, then footsteps on the stairs. _God_ , she thinks, shaking her head, _he really doesn't care about today, does he?_ He hasn't even _mentioned_ it.  
  
“It's Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab,” she hears John say, and Sally's simmering frustration—at Lestrade for dragging her here, at this stupid flat, at Sherlock (always)—bubbles over and up.  
  
“I told you, he does that,” she tells him, and then to Lestrade, “He bloody _left_ again.” Words filled with layers and layers of meaning that John doesn't yet understand. He's ringing the phone but it's not here, can't be, and suddenly Sally is sick and tired of all this _utter_ rubbish.  
  
“Does it matter?” she snaps, “does any of it? You know, he—he's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down and,” and she won't cry, she _won't_ , “you're wasting your time. All our time,” she adds, and she sees the moment when Lestrade _remembers_ what day it is, the momentary flare of guilt. He sighs, a whole body exhale— _okay everybody, done here._  
  
 _Thank you_ , she thinks, starts immediately to relieve the team. Now that she knows she's going home she can feel herself ticking off the moments until she can get back to Sam, and she's feeling lighter and happier with each one until she's on the stairs, heading away.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes is a great man,” Lestrade says behind her, voice carrying, “and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky,”—impossibly so, Sally thinks—“he might even be a good one.”  
  
It's enough to remind her that Sherlock is off somewhere else chasing criminals across London and that, even as he is, his son is at home, turning four.


	2. Part II

She wonders what he must think, John Watson. What his reaction to Sam would have been, when Sherlock told him. If it made him look at her any differently.

  
She knows that John doesn't like the way she speaks to Sherlock, but that's their problem and not his in the same way that Sam is _their_ son, that he was there long before John Watson was, even if Sherlock doesn't seem to care.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mum," Sam says conversationally. "What's my dad like?"  
  
Sally doesn't quite hear him at first—he's only just stopped calling her _mummy_ , a fact that she's blaming on his nursery, and _mum_ feels jarring, distracting—but then it sinks in, like his words are on satellite delay. She tenses—only a little, but enough for Sam, who is snuggled in close to her on his bed, to look up in curiosity. Sally puts down the book she's holding, winds her arms a little further around him, kisses the top of his head. One of his hands is curled into the neck of her jumper, a calming weight on the material that makes her heart, which is beating a little faster for his question, begin to slow down.  
  
She's been waiting for this. It's just come a little sooner than she'd like.  
  
“Well,” she begins, pauses. She brings a hand up to his hair, cards her fingers through it. Sam cuddles closer, instinctive. “He's—”  
  
 _How to describe Sherlock Holmes?_ she thinks. She could do it easily if she were talking to an adult, someone who didn't care— _freak, psychopath, absolute bloody wanker_ —but neither the language nor the sentiment is appropriate for a child. Certainly not for his. Sally looks at the book spine-upwards on the bed, thinks.  
  
“He's like an adventurer,” she says. She almost winces at the simple language, at the myriad of terrible impressions she could be giving with each misplaced or misjudged word, but it's just so _difficult_ to know which ones to use. “He chases people who've been bad and makes sure that they get caught.”   
  
“Like you?”  
  
Sally huffs out a laugh. Of course. Children don't differentiate between police officers and consulting detectives.  
  
“A little.”  
  
There's a pause, silence. Sally looks down at the top of Sam's head, at the eyelashes fanning out above his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He's looking at the story book; she can tell that he's frowning.  
  
“Where is he?” Sam asks. The tone is curious, tinged with confusion; Sally's heart feels like there's a wire in it, tugging painfully, and she swallows the feeling down. Sam looks up, tilting his head backwards to see her face better.  
  
Sally thinks suddenly back to her father—it's not Sam, not precisely, because the resemblance is sparse, just a hint around the mouth and chin, but—it _is_ , because these days when she wishes he was still here it's for her son, not for herself. He's growing up surrounded by women—Sally, her mum, her sisters, her nieces—and whilst that doesn't even approach being a problem there's a palpable gap in their lives where her father should have been; someone for him to look up to. Her brothers-in-law do the job as best they can, and there's Mycroft, a half-distant presence on the edge, swooping in when he's needed and absent when he's not, but—Sally worries.  
  
Her father would have adored Sam, she thinks. Sam would have adored him too.  
  
Sally tugs at one of the curls across his forehead; he scrunches up his nose—a whined chorus of _Mu-um_ —and she taps the tip of it.  
  
“He's very busy, my darling,” she settles on. She has to choose the words carefully, to tread a line between the plain truth, which is far too harsh, and lying to him, which she won't do. “He's got lots of people to chase, and he's the only one in the world who can do it.”  
  
Sam's eyes widen a little bit at that; Sally can see the beginnings of hero worship in them and suddenly she wants to claw the words back, say _not like that, dear_.  
  
She holds him just a little bit tighter. Hers and only hers, just for that bit longer.  
  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft, with his seeming omnipotence, drops by the next day.  
  
Sam leaps up from his toys, discarding them towards the sofa as he greets his uncle. Mycroft pats the top of his head and pulls a tiny wrapped parcel from his pocket; Sam devours it, pulling off the paper and putting the sweet in his mouth before it's barely unwrapped. He grins, chocolatey, and over the top of his head Mycroft nods to his assistant, who snaps into action, directing Sam's attention back to his toys. Sally will never understand how she can sit down on the floor in those _shoes_.  
  
In the kitchen Sally brings the cafetière out of the cupboard and sets to work. Mycroft watches her from the kitchen chair, legs crossed at the knee, umbrella balanced, tip on the floor, like a walking stick. _What a very strange man_ , she thinks. It's not the first time.  
  
“He asked, then?” she says.  
  
Mycroft nods. “He was quite insistent. I'm sure you realise that I kept to my end of the bargain.”  
  
Their long-ago bargain, yes. Mycroft knows that she knows that. It's why he's here, because somehow he _knows_ that Sam had asked last night, and not for the first time Sally wonders if their house is bugged.  
  
“Yes,” she nods, presses down the filter in the cafetière. “Thank you.”  
  
Mycroft acknowledges her with a vague tilt of the head. He accepts the coffee when she hands it over and sets it down on the kitchen table, untouched, still watching her. He's more hawkish than Sherlock, though his eyes unnerve her less, probably because looking at Sherlock is forever twisted up with looking at the person she loves most in the entire world.  
  
Sally clasps her own drink between her palms and sips. Black with two sugars, a luxury she allows herself. “Is there something else?”  
  
Sally has always thought that Mycroft appreciates her bluntness. She doesn't treat him like family; they hold each other at arm's length with Sam the link between them, but it seems to work. She'd made deductions of her own, when he first began to visit, that for Mycroft talking to Sherlock must be like walking in circles, like solving a puzzle, because he relaxes under Sally's straight questions and blunt opinions as though he doesn't find that anywhere else. Mycroft talks in enough riddles of his own that she supposes it's probably a family trait.  
  
“You're having an affair. Or rather,” he amends, “someone is having an affair with you.”  
  
The Holmes brothers have been pulling rugs out from under her feet for five years, but it still feels like being punched when they do it, like all of the air leaving her chest. Sally takes the wave of anger out on her cup, gripping it with white-knuckled force. Mycroft will know about Anderson, obviously, that's not the surprising part. That he feels entitled to bring it up is what's making her seriously endanger her favourite mug.  
  
“I wasn't aware,” she replies, voice controlled enough that she might give Mycroft a run for his money, “that it was any of your business.”  
  
“You're the mother of my nephew,” he gives back, no hesitation. “That makes it my business.”  
  
Oh, for god's sake. “Yes, I am his mother,” _thank you very much_ , “so believe me when I say that I know what I'm doing, and that it's really none of your concern.”  
  
It's just sex—and loneliness and a friend and someone to _talk_ to, and _private_ , importantly—and it has never once touched upon Sam. Never this house, never somewhere that her son's presence can be felt. Only spaces free from real life, where Sally can escape, just for a while. There's a little knot of guilt in her chest—has been for a while, will be for a while more—but Sally is confident that she can keep the balance between selfish ( _just this once, please, something for me_ ) and selfless. Sam doesn't know a thing.  
  
She's waiting for a reply, cold and cutting and completely _not okay_ , but Sam chooses that moment to appear in the kitchen teary-eyed, clutching his hand. It's only a splinter, but Sally wipes his tears and sits him on the kitchen counter, concentrates on trying to fix it. By the time it's gone he's still red-eyed, but he's also got a glass of milk in the other hand and Mycroft's assistant playing cars with him, running their plastic wheels along his knees and turning his sniffles into giggles.  
  
They don't finish their conversation but Mycroft nods, just once, over the top of Sam's head as he's hugged goodbye. Sally hopes that's the end of it.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally's mum sprains her wrist. She's with Sam at the time, trying to stop him tearing round the park and scaring pigeons, and Sally has to take an hour to go and get him from the hospital ( _what a lovely little boy_ , the nurses say). Her mum waves her off— _go back to work, Sally, I'll be fine_ , apologising for the trouble, and Sally shakes her head and says _don't be silly_. Still, it's a little awkward; no one can take him, no matter how many people Sally rings round, so he ends up in the chair on the other side of her desk, vacant because of a coworker's cold.  
  
“Here,” she says, takes his pencils and nursery books from his bag. He's busy with a piece of Met letterheaded paper, colouring in the lions on the crest. “Time for homework.” She drops a kiss against his hair. “Let me know if you need any help.” Sam is quiet, lost in his own world, a subdued presence across from her as she does her own work, and when she has to speak to Lestrade she asks her colleagues to keep an eye on him. He's safe here though. No Sherlock today.  
  
  
  
  
  
Though the walls of Lestrade's office are glass they're fairly opaque and the door is wood, so Sally has no idea until she goes to leave. Her grip on the handle stiffens as she opens it and sees; her breath gets caught in her chest.  
  
“What about this?” Sam asks, pointing to his little book. He looks up, face full of questions, to the man above him.  
  
“Well,” John Watson says, following Sam's hand. He crouches down—Sally sees him wince a little—and settles his index finger on the page. It's an activity sheet from nursery; John's mouth quirks as he reads it through. “The sum of, that's adding up, isn't it? So you add the number of ice creams to the number of apples.”  
  
Sam nods thoughtfully and starts counting on his fingers. John notices Sally, smiles, though it's a little wary—perhaps he can see the way that her hand is still clutching the door handle even though it's closed behind her.  
  
“Sorry,” he says. “He cornered me on the way in with questions.”  
  
It almost looks as though he wants to ruffle Sam's hair, though he doesn't. Sally nods and tries to smile back, though her heart is beating fast and panicked, waiting to see Sherlock appear through the far doors.  
  
“Just you, is it?” she asks, keeps her voice steady, though when he nods and says _yes_ Sally is surprised by how her knees almost buckle in relief. This is really _not_ the time and place for a family reunion. She lets go of the door and moves to Sam, strokes his shoulder. He doesn't notice, just carries on writing numbers out in small, messy handwriting, and John nods, a kind of goodbye with an awkward smile, and heads for Lestrade's office.  
  
“He's, uh, he's a nice kid,” John says then, turning. Sally nods, _thanks_ , not sure what else to say. The office door closes and he disappears, and Sally wonders just how much Sherlock has told him. If he'll go away and tell Sherlock what his son is like.  
  
 _A nice kid_ , she thinks, watching Sam add and subtract sunhats. Yeah. He is.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sherlock is almost blown up.  
  
He's not, and Sally is put to work on the case, which means more time spent in each other's company. She knows that they're coming in—she's seen the strongbox, seen the envelope inside—and sitting at her desk she taps her pen against her laptop. Sherlock has a talent for putting her in a bad mood.  
  
She hears the doors swing open, Lestrade's voice carrying across the office; _that explosion_ , he says, and Sherlock and John are following a step or so behind.  
  
“Gas leak, yes?” Sherlock replies, though his eyes are fixed to Sally as they sweep past, for reasons that she can't fathom. Lestrade says _no_ ; Sherlock's eyes go a little wide and skitter away from her, and Sally can breathe again.  
  
  
  
  
  
“A _study in pink_ —you read his blog?”  
  
 _Everyone reads his blog_ , Sally thinks at the same time as Lestrade says it out loud. Sherlock's voice is higher than usual, younger for it, and he sounds just like Sam.  
  
“Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?”  
  
Sally laughs. She can't help it. Sherlock looks up at her, softer for this sudden vulnerability. Like father like son, it seems—their expressions are always so similar—and his eyes stay on her as she leaves the room.  
  
Sam knows all about the solar system—it's his favourite subject.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sherlock stops someone else from being blown to bits.  
  
It seems like this case is mostly fieldwork for him, leaping and jumping and running about London the same way that Sam runs around the house like a hurricane, so Sally is almost surprised to see him back at the Yard. She's acutely surprised and already thinking of bringing it up with Lestrade when _her_ mobile rings and it's for him.  
  
“Freak,” she says, opening Lestrade's office door, “it's for you.”  
  
There's a slight pause before he strides towards her, purposeful, though his interest is always on the phone. When he takes it their fingers brush, so very slightly, and Sally rubs the feeling of it away on her trousers.  
  
  
  
  
  
An abandoned car and another person strapped into a bomb. It's also cold and wet and the definition of _miserable_ —Sam has a cold that Sally thinks she might be getting, can feel it in her sinuses when she turns her head too quickly—and she wants them to get out of here as fast as possible.  
  
She walks with John towards the car, both of them following a few steps behind Sherlock and Lestrade. It's not entirely comfortable—John is very obviously operating on too-little sleep—and Sally spins possible conversations around in her head as they dip under the police tape. There's only one mutual topic she cares to think of.  
  
“You're still hanging round him.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” John's answer is short and sharp. This obviously isn't a conversation he wants to have today.  
  
Tough. “Opposites attract, I suppose.”  
  
He shakes his head, weary. “No, we're not—”  
  
“You should get yourself a hobby, stamps, maybe, model trains. Safer.”  
  
He doesn't reply, just focuses on where Sherlock is examining the car. Sally doesn't push it, too tired to bother, just joins Lestrade and watches Sherlock take a business card from the car's glove compartment.  
  
“No body,” he says, straightening; his eyes dart over the rest of the scene.  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
She can't help but smile as she says it, the involuntary kind that haunts her at inappropriate moments. Sherlock ignores her, of course, just encourages Lestrade to break even more rules by asking—ordering—for a sample to be sent to the lab, and Sally's sinuses are starting to ache properly now, tapping at her skull. She corners an officer and gets the job done, all the while watching Sherlock emotionally abuse Mrs. Monkton on the other side of the crime scene.  
  
When he walks away she can see he's been crying to get what he wants, and for unknown reasons the way that he wipes at his eyes sends her reeling inside her head, like someone has pulled her back five years into the past. She sees him lifting a hand to his face, wiping absently at the sleep in the corner of his eye; then he's trailing his fingertips just above her eyelashes and there's the curve of a smile, his or hers, she doesn't know, in the dark. She remembers kissing, torn between gentle and rough, the lines of his sternum underneath her hands. She remembers laughing.  
  
Sally shakes her head—it makes pain burst behind her eyes—and bites her lip. Not now.  
  
“Fishing,” she calls out to John as they walk by, “try fishing,” but he barely hears her, doesn't spare more than a quick glance and distracted nod. She watches them walk away and impressions of Sherlock—the one here and the one then—are left on her retinas like an afterimage.  
  
  
  
  
He's acting like a caged animal, pacing to and fro around the desks. John is watching him, sat in a vacant chair, and Sally is watching the both of them.  
  
“This is pointless,” Sherlock snaps. “We don't need to be here.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John admonishes, though the word is weak, weighed down by sleep. He's resting his face on his hand, elbow on the desk, and if it weren't for his eyes being open Sally would think he'd dropped off. “We're staying here until Lestrade sorts this out.”  
  
There's an unspoken thought in there, though Sally doesn't know if it's blame or guilt or pure exhaustion. Sherlock doesn't reply, just scowls, features twisted, and sits on the edge of another desk. He drums his fingers against his thigh; the rhythm is quick and agitated.  
  
“Right,” John says, pulls himself from his chair and yawns. “Little boy's room. Back in a minute.”  
  
He half-waves, a pointless gesture, and disappears, rubbing at his eyes, and Sally and Sherlock are left alone in each other's company. He's biting his lip now, she notices, tugging at the skin with a sharp eye tooth. If she didn't know him she'd say that he hadn't noticed she's there, but that's an impossibility. He notices everything.  
  
“Here,” she says on impulse, holding out her polystyrene cup. He looks over and the frown deepens slightly. She's perplexed him. Good. “Tea.”  
  
“That's uncharacteristically generous of you, Sally,” he replies, all sarcasm, though he takes it anyway. “Not poisoned, I hope.”  
  
“Yeah, well, don't expect much,” she tells him. He takes a sip. “It's from the machine.”  
  
“Almost a pound,” Sherlock says, speaking around the plastic lid. “That's rather a lot for you to spend on me.”  
  
Sally doesn't tell him that she'd bought it for herself and then changed her mind, though she knows that he knows. He probably doesn't know that he looks rather like his son at the moment; that she's doing for him now what she does for Sam when he's bored or ill. That she doesn't really know why, either.  
  
“Maybe you'll realise now,” she says instead. “Realise that these are real people. Real, human lives.”  
  
It's a non-sequitur of her own, for once. She wants to say his name, wants to say _real, human lives, Sherlock_ , to make him sit up and _see_ just what he's cost someone tonight, but she can't. Funny that, how she can have a child who shares his DNA and yet she won't call him by name.  
  
His hands are still around the cup; his eyes are focused on the desk across from him, darting between the items dislocated across the surface. He turns to her, entirely closed off. Like an empty page. “It's not my fault.”  
  
It reminds her of Sam when he's broken something, that knee-jerk reaction of _it wasn't me_. “That's not the point. Just—think. About something that isn't your weird, perverted interests for once. All these people strapped into bombs, they're not—” and she casts around for the right phrase, a way of putting it that will make him _think_ , “they're not dead bodies, not yet. Don't treat them like they are.”  
  
“What difference would it make?” His expression is still purposefully blank, but it's focused now, zeroed in on her. She isn't used to being the centre of his attention, not like this. The only living person she's seen him concentrate on so thoroughly is John.  
  
“If this is all for you,” she says instead, because the only answer she can come up with is _it won't make a difference to you_. “If this is some psychotic game meant to keep you entertained, what does that mean for Sam?”  
  
The unspoken words; _is our child in danger?_ It's a question that's been looming in her head. Something like shock bleeds into Sherlock's features, changes his expression, just slightly; that little bit less cool, less calculated. He doesn't say anything, which is enough to ensure Sally that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind.  
  
He will never say _I don't know_  so she takes the option away from him, says, “It doesn't matter. He'll be fine with me.” _Please. Please._  
  
Sherlock doesn't nod or smile or acknowledge it, just sips again at the tea, still watching her. The silence fills out, becomes deeper, and he says, “What—”  
  
“Sherlock?” John thuds through the office doors, heavy with exhaustion. He ruffles his own hair and stifles a yawn. “We're alright to go, I think.”  
  
There's a glow of something in Sherlock's face, a dull kind of delight, and he straightens and strides away, no hesitation, sentence forgotten. John waves, lethargic. Sherlock doesn't look back. Sally doesn't expect him to.  
  
When they're gone Sally grabs her mobile from her pocket and texts her mum. _Is Sam alright?_  
  
 _Out like a light_ , she gets in reply, and Sally smiles and kisses the phone and doesn't care if she looks stupid.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lestrade and Sherlock are in his office with Miss Wenceslas. Sally has just come back from reuniting a young boy with his parents and she still feels sick. She'd phoned her mother in the car on the way back, then Sam's nursery to inform them that he'd be leaving early, and she doesn't stop texting her mum until she's told that they're safely home. She phones, just to hear the sound of his voice, and makes sure that she doesn't let worry creep into her tone. He's getting good at catching her out on that, these days.  
  
Just as she's saying goodbye John Watson wanders into view. He's holding two plastic cups, the ones from the water cooler, and he looks at the closed door to the office with uncertainty. Sally shakes her head emphatically— _not yet_ —and he nods, _thanks_ , looks for somewhere to put them. They end up on the corner of her desk as Sally says _goodbye darling, love you_ , and John looks away, a very British sense of propriety.  
  
“Sorry,” Sally says, settles her phone on her desk. “It's not a good time.”  
  
It's not a good time in general right now—Sally can still see a tiny little boy covered in explosives, the delicacy with which the bomb squad had touched him—and she exhales heavily, pushes her hair back away from her face.  
  
“Is he alright?” John asks.  
  
For a moment she thinks he means Sam, then it computes; the boy on the end of the phone. Sally nods. “Lots of tears, but he'll be okay, I think. Boys can be resilient little things.”  
  
John smiles at that, a weary kind of thing, but it's touched with what looks like relief. This puzzle solved, at least.  
  
“How did he do it this time?” Sally asks. Lestrade hadn't briefed her much when he'd called, just the basics and the boy's location, the priority. “How did he know it was a fake?”  
  
John's smile widens. “There was a star in the painting, the Van-something supernova. Just a dot of paint, really,” he says, “but it wasn't even in the sky in the sixteen-hundreds.”  
  
He looks almost giddy now, smile wide as he shakes his head. Sally can appreciate it in a detached way—that's an almost supernatural attention to detail, even for Sherlock—but it makes her feel a little angry too. Her insides are still churning for thinking about a boy—a boy who could so easily have been _her son_ —seconds away from detonating, and on impulse she opens her mouth and says, “Did he care?”  
  
John seems a little taken aback by her question, as though the conversation has veered in a direction he wasn't expecting. “Pardon?”  
  
“Did he care?” she repeats. “Did he care that it was a kid?”  
  
John pauses. His arms are crossed and he's leaning against the side of her desk, looking down, and he purses his lips in thought.  
  
“I don't think Sherlock thinks about it like that,” he answers after a moment. Sally nods again. Of course he doesn't. “I think he was concentrating on the answer more than anything.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Sally can't help but bite out. “He doesn't care about his _own_ son, it makes sense he wouldn't care about somebody else's—”  
  
“I'm sorry,” John interrupts; his face dips into a frown. “His what?”  
  
Sally baulks slightly. “His son.” A pause. “Sam.”  
  
John's looking at her like she's just told him that she believes as many as six impossible things before breakfast. “Sorry,” he says again, “but you're going to have to explain this to me in more detail. Sherlock has a _son_?”  
  
Things begin to click into place. John has never actually mentioned Sam, never touched on the relationship, or lack thereof, between Sam and Sherlock—hasn't even hinted at it, now that she thinks about it. The one time they'd been in contact he'd treated Sam with the kind of affable detachment reserved for the child of someone you don't know that well (Sally), not the person you live with (Sherlock).  
  
Sherlock hasn't told him.  
  
Sally is _furious_.  
  
“Yes,” she says; she has to clench her hands to keep her voice steady. “He does. I suppose this means he's never mentioned him?”  
  
John just shakes his head slowly, mouth falling open a little. He glances to the still-closed office door, then back to Sally. He swallows, begins to say something, then stops, tries again. “He—who's the—” a cough, “who's the mother?”  
  
It seems to take an age for Sally's voice to resonate out, though it's barely a second or so. “Me. I am.” John's mouth falls open properly at that, though he has enough sense of self to close it almost immediately. “I'm surprised you didn't see it,” she continues. “He's the spitting image.”  
  
John seems to be at war with himself; his movements are controlled, incredibly so, and Sally wonders just how much shock he's holding in.  
  
“I guess you don't see what you don't expect to,” he replies finally. He shrugs, apologetic. “I'm sorry, I honestly had no idea.”  
  
Even if she's completely incensed—if the knowledge that Sherlock has neglected to mention Sam to the most important person in his life sends her apoplectic—that, at least, is not John's fault. Her hand makes its way back to her hair, pushes it from her face again, and she concentrates on working this new piece of information into her life, into the way she has to look at the world.  
  
“Sam, was it?” John asks after a moment. He's not looking at her, eyes fixed instead to Lestrade's office door and the voices, muffled, inside. He's still frowning, and when he's not speaking his mouth is fixed into a thin line. Sally thinks he might actually be angry.  
  
“Sam,” she confirms. Then, “He's four. Four and a bit.”  
  
John's eyebrows raise at that. There's quiet again, and on impulse Sally opens her desk draw. It's her one disorganised space, full of things like staplers and post-its and elastic bands, and strewn about there are photographs. She doesn't keep them on the top; her desk sees too many dark things, too many reports that you need a strong stomach to read—nothing she wants to associate with her child, not ever.  
  
She pulls out her favourite photograph, holds it out to John. He accepts it with a perfunctory smile, though it softens into something more genuine when he looks at it. He nods, doesn't seem to realise he's doing it.  
  
“Ah, yes," he says. "I remember. It's uncanny, actually, it really is. He's like a miniature Sherlock. How do you—”  
  
He cuts himself off; a flush works its way down his cheeks and Sally thinks that might have ended with _how do you cope?_  
  
The door cuts them off; it opens, and with it the sound of Lestrade's voice, estuary-accented, and Sherlock's, cut clearer. Miss Wenceslas doesn't say anything. When Sherlock appears he's grinning and trying not to show it, though without much effort; he's shrugging on his coat, winding his scarf around his neck.  
  
“Come on, John,” he says. “We've somewhere to be.”  
  
He doesn't look at Sally, but she's accustomed to it. John, though—John watches him go, pauses before he follows to look between them, almost as if he's expecting something to have changed. Sally just shrugs— _go on then._  
  
He goes. Sally takes a deep breath and picks up her photograph. She considers it for a moment—the curve of Sam's mouth, the slope of his nose, the hair that makes a dark halo around his head. His eyes, that incredible colour that she _loves_ despite the DNA it's derived from.  
  
“You can live on the desk,” she murmurs; some of her anger dissipates for seeing it and she props it up against her desk lamp. “Just for today.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally's going to be working late tonight because of this case, so she phones her mum and warns that she won't be around for dinner, that she'll probably need to put Sam to bed. He sequesters the phone from his grandmother to tell Sally that it's mash and she's missing out, though he's distracted enough by the television for the guilt in her system to ebb and flow. She tells her mum not to wait up.  
  
Sally visits the vending machine in the hall. She's having a late afternoon lull as the sun thinks about sinking behind the London skyline, so she chooses a bag of Skittles (sugar, energy), eats a few in the hall before she relocates back to her desk. Lestrade spots them when he comes out of his office; he sticks his hand out, grinning.  
  
“I'm looking for some of the Jefferson Hope stuff,” she tells him. “In the filing cabinet. I want to do some cross-referencing.”  
  
“Feel free,” he says. “It costs, though.”  
  
Sally drops a few Skittles into his palm with a smile. The filing cabinet is fairly small, mostly unused these days, but what's in there is jam-packed, the files she riffles through tightly wedged. She's focused on the task at hand, eyes looking for the right words— _Jefferson Hope, Moriarty_ —and she's not really aware of her wider surroundings until she hears her name.  
  
“—with _Sally?_ ”  
  
John's voice feeds through the gap in Lestrade's open office door. It's about five inches and if Sally leans back she can see that he's stopped Sherlock just outside, one hand outstretched to keep him still. Sherlock looks impatient; his eyes are narrowed.  
  
“I didn't think it was relevant.”  
  
“Not relevant?” John is agitated with movement, gestures wide and overwrought for it. “This is about your _kid_. How is that not relevant?”  
  
Sherlock sighs, that whole body exhale that comes when he's frustrated, when someone is being unforgivably slow or boring. He doesn't say much for a moment, just stares at John. “It's not relevant to me. It never has been.”  
  
John scoffs, a hard sound. A disappointed sound. His smile is disbelieving, fake, and he shakes his head. “This is it, isn't it? This is you not caring about people.”  
  
“And I suppose,” Sherlock replies, “that this is another instance where caring will make a difference?”  
  
“Yeah, it bloody well is. Your _child_ ,” John says again. Sherlock's mouth presses into a line, probably for the repetition. He can't bear it. “You—you've got a responsibility, Sherlock, whether it fits in with you or not. Do you pay money?”  
  
Sally feels something coil into her, a discomfort that spreads through her whole body with the question. She knows that John is asking from a good place, because he's the kind of person with a moral compass pointing directly north, but still. If she could choose, this wouldn't be his business.  
  
To her everlasting relief, Sherlock avoids the questions. “This is the way it is, John. Stop trying to press whatever morals you think I'm lacking onto the situation. It doesn't suit you.”  
  
He moves to get past, to go into Lestrade's office—panic spikes in Sally; she won't have time to move—but John catches his arm, pulls him to a stop. Even from here Sally can see the way his thumb brushes at the inside of Sherlock's wrist, the exposed skin between coat cuff and gloves, and it feels like seeing something she shouldn't. There's a pause.  
  
“Sherlock—” John begins.  
  
“Do you remember what I said?” he cuts off. His voice is quiet; Sally finds herself leaning forward to make sure that she catches it. “Before? That sentiment applies just as well here.”  
  
It's incomprehensible to Sally, really, but she can catch the drift from the way John's expression shifts; brow relaxing from its frown, the edges of his mouth losing a little of their tension. He lets go of Sherlock's arm, shifts from foot to foot. He looks sad, kind, and when he speaks his voice is softer.  
  
“You can't make decisions like that—”  
  
Sherlock nods, staccato, just once. It's emphatic.  
  
“Yes, I can. I can make one decision for him and this is it. Far better off, don't you think?”  
  
The last words are almost—almost—flippant, but Sally barely hears them anyway. It's as though the world has tipped on its axis, tilting sideways with neither warning nor permission, and she can feel her rib cage pierced white hot with adrenaline, with shocked breathing.  
  
Four and a bit years of selfishness, of staying away, motivated entirely by one single unselfish decision. Even if it was the wrong one it's enough to change everything, just that little bit.  
  
John is quiet for a moment; Sally wonders if everything is recalibrating around him too. “Sherlock,” he begins, but he drifts off, sentence left with nowhere to go. They watch each other; Sherlock's body is filled with tension, coiled, and Sally reaches for a random file, flips it open and pretends to be engrossed. It's not a second too late; the door swings open with the sounds of footfalls and she looks up, feigns surprise. Sherlock and John exchange a look and she pretends that she doesn't know what it means.  
  
“Oh, hello, freak.” Sally is secretly rather pleased with her acting skills, voice falter-free, though Sherlock is watching her with focus, unsettling her. “Why are you back here? The case is done. Closed.”  
  
“We need to see Lestrade,” he replies. John is looking between the two of them as though it's a tennis match. “Now.”  
  
Sally watches him and he watches back, and though she's not entirely sure she thinks he knows that she knows. She nods and glares, their routine by now, and when she's left the office she shuts the door behind her and leans on it, just for a second; takes deep breaths in and out.  
  
The files Sally's holding to her chest aren't the ones she went in for but she barely notices, just puts them down and picks up her photo from where it's still leaning against the lamp. Hair, mouth, _eyes_. Everything so very, very much the same.  
  
Sally has the sudden urge to cry. She doesn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
When they're finished with whatever it is they need to tell Lestrade—something about a bicycle courier and drugs and the name Andrew West, which seems familiar—they leave, and it's exactly the same as it had been earlier in the day except that this time, when John doesn't immediately follow Sherlock, Sally catches at his arm; _wait_.  
  
“Here,” she says, holding out the photograph. “Just—take this, yeah?”  
  
Johns nods, and it feels like a kindness from one stranger to another. “Sure. No problem.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally _is_ home late, though it's earlier than she was expecting; her mum's still up watching late night repeats of Eastenders and she sits through a few minutes with her before she goes upstairs.  
  
Sam stirs as Sally opens the door—it creaks a little and she reminds herself to oil the hinges—and when she sits on the edge of the bed he moves over, vaguely awake, expecting her to get in. Sally kicks off her shoes and folds back the covers, murmurs _budge up a bit more, darling_ as she slides in; he rolls right back when she's settled, curls into a curve against her. He's beautifully warm and Sally breathes in the scent of him that pervades the pillow and duvet.  
  
He's sleeping again within minutes, breathing dulling out, cloyed as it is with the beginnings of a cold, but Sally stays awake; her mind is buzzing. Things are different even as they aren't—because Sherlock can't undo years of abhorrent behaviour with a few overheard sentiments—but Sally certainly finds that she can look at it differently; that she can find a misguided sense of _doing the right thing_ in there, somewhere. She settles a hand on Sam's shoulder, feels it rise and fall with each breath.  
  
“I'm making this decision now,” she murmurs.  
  
Things are going to change tomorrow.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sally doesn't realise that she's fallen asleep until her phone wakes her, buzzing impolitely in her bag. She's still dressed, just slides out of bed and slips on her shoes, kisses her son goodbye.  
  
  
  
  
  
She gets home in the early hours of the morning, clothes stained with the scent of chlorine and smoke, and goes straight back up to Sam's bedroom.  
  
He's still sleeping, room lit grey now by the first murmurs of sunrise, and Sally sits on the edge of his bed, lays her fingers in his hair and twists the curls, ever so gently, around her fingers. She thinks about how they didn't find a body, about how little impact that fact will have on his life. How big an impact it will have on hers.  
  
“Love you,” she murmurs to her baby, tucks sleep-mussed hair behind his ear. He turns over in his sleep and she sees Sherlock's profile in miniature. How can she hate him, she wonders, thinking of chaos and rubble, when he gave her this?  
  
  
  
  
  
There is a man standing outside the nursery on the maternity ward. He looks exhausted, hair sticking up as though he's run his hands through it over and over again, and there are grey circles under his eyes. If you weren't that observant you'd say _new father_ ; if you were you'd say _addict_.  
  
He's staring, one hand against the glass window, and when a midwfie smiles and asks if he's alright he just nods and keeps looking.  
  
“Which one's yours?” she asks.  
  
He points to the one whose hair is already thick and dark, like his. The identity bracelet says _Samuel Donovan_.  
  
“Him,” he says. “He's mine.”  
  
The midwife waits, but he doesn't say any more. She leaves him to it.

  
  



End file.
